Page 13 of In the Garden of Monsters

As I entered the little room, I thought I heard my name again.

But Orpheus only purred louder in my ear, which convinced me that I imagined the whispers, that perhaps I really was just tired or coming down with something.

Brushing the thoughts away, I scanned the room. How odd there was no plaque for Giulia, who may be resting beneath my feet—nothing to mention a date of death, no words of love or memory.

I turned toward the door, ready to strut out for Paolo’s camera.

Julia...

This time I heard my name loud and clear. There was no way I could have imagined it. Before I could react, two birds flew through the cupola windows and dive-bombed Orpheus, then fled just as quickly as they’d swooped in. Orpheus howled and bolted, his claws piercing my dress and skin as he pushed himself off my shoulder. I shrieked and attempted to run but only managed to pitch forward, landing in the dust and leaves covering thetempiettofloor. As I fell, I thought I saw the faintest ghostly figure against the far wall, the figure of a woman. There was something familiar about her, but I didn’t have a chance to understand why before the shape disappeared and Jack appeared by my side.

“Are you all right?” he asked, lifting me up. “That cat just streaked by us like it had seen a ghost.”

“I think it did,” I said, dusting myself off.

Jack pulled a leaf from my hair. His skin smelled earthy, fresh like a spring morning. “You’re joking, right?”

I could only give him a nervous laugh before the rest of the Dalí entourage crowded around the temple entrance.

“I’m fine,” I said, willing my body to stop shaking. “I just need some air.” I pushed my way through them and out of thetempietto, wondering if the ghost had been communing with the dead Giulia buried there or if her words were intended for me.

“What did you see?” Ignazio asked, concerned.

What did I see?Not “are you all right” or “what happened,” but what had I seen? For a moment, I considered telling him about the ghost, but something held me back.

“Two birds flew down from the windows and went after the cat. He launched himself off my shoulder.” I looked at my hands; they were still trembling.

“What kind of birds?”

“Turtledoves,” I said, not understanding what difference it made.

He sighed and nodded. “They must have a nest somewhere up high.”

It would be unusual for birds to be protecting a nest in November, but I didn’t bother to contradict him. “Heh,” I said instead, “I thought doves were peaceful birds.” I touched the spot on my shoulder where Orpheus had clawed me and felt blood. A nasty set of claw marks were bright against my skin. Ignazio reached a hand toward my wound, but I recoiled, afraid of the heat of his touch.

He frowned but didn’t comment on my action. Instead, he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dangled it toward me. Conflicted, I took it and winced as I pressed it against the wound. Despite all my internal warnings about this man, I wanted Ignazio to take care of me, to help, and a part of me wished I hadn’t pulled away from him.

“We’ll need to clean that up so it doesn’t get infected. There is a first aid kit in the truck,” he said. “I’ll take you to the spot where I think Maestro Dalí will want to paint you, and then I’ll go back and get it. It’s not far.”

“Grazie.”Much as I wanted him to help, I didn’t want him to touch me again. The jolt that rushed through my body and mind when he merely brushed against me was overwhelming enough, and I didn’t think I could handle more.

After I reassured everyone I was fine, Ignazio led us down another set of stairs to the top of a wide hippodrome lined with huge statues of acorns and pine cones resting on pedestals and set between long benches. Partway down the stairs was a level spot with a small statue about four feet high that was half covered in moss and surrounded in weeds. Emerging from this wild nature were three heads, oddly added to the top of the stone body—Cerberus.

“He’s guarding the dead in the Underworld,” Gala said, jerking a thumb back toward thetempietto.

Thinking of the ghostly woman I had just seen, I shivered as Orpheus emerged from the brush and began to rub his face on one of Cerberus’s legs, marking his territory. “Perhaps he’s not so savage after all.” I chuckled. Despite his three heads, the dog looked rather docile. I ran a hand over one of its snouts as if to test my theory.

But Gala didn’t hear me. She was already down in the hippodrome, directing Jack on where to set up the easel. Instead, it was Dalí who appeared at my side. He, too, extended a hand and rubbed one of the beast’s snouts. “You’re right. He’s not so savage, not like this. But I always picture him as he was in Dante’sInferno.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Canto six, on gluttony,” Ignazio, who had just appeared seemingly out of nowhere, chimed in before Dalí could respond. Then he proceeded to recite the poem, his voice mesmerizing, the accent smooth, though not quite Italian, not quite like any I could identify:

“‘Cerberus, cruel monster, fierce and strange,

Through his wide threefold throat barks as a dog

Over the multitude immersed beneath.

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